On Your Way
by NayanRoo
Summary: Some memories cannot be denied, especially when the reminder is always there. Very vague past OroAnko


On Your Way

It was always there, sitting off to one side and neglected like a weed. She passed it every day on her way to the Hokage tower to collect a mission or meet someone for lunch, and only a few times did she give it her glance. It was one of those things that she preferred not to think about, for even all these years later, the wounds were still too painful for her to want to open up. It helped that the house was by itself, half-hidden by a copse of trees, and set back from the main road through this part of town.

One day, though, she stopped in her march toward the center of the village, turned on her heel, and looked at the little house. Its windows were boarded up, though in places the boards had been torn away by animals or teenagers looking for a kick. Something inside her turned over in anger at that, too; something she found most curious, and aggravating. But this little place told her that some part of herself was being violated whether she thought to quell all memory of _him_ or not. The door was not boarded, but there was a rope bearing a little tag (_Forbidden_) across it. For a moment she paused, muscles leaning to take toward the Hokage tower again at a dead run and leave this place, but at the last second, she tilted her chin up and walked boldly up to the gate that she knew so well of old.

Her hands ran over it, feeling the rough, weathered wood, the lichens that had made this their home. She remembered grabbing it for the first time, a little Academy graduate, scared of the man they had given to teach her, but brave. It was at her stomach then; now, it barely reached her hips. With a final pass of her hands over the latch (rusted shut), she stepped over it and started up the walkway to the house. The gravel crunched under her sandals. Although weeds and grass had almost grown over it, she could have walked it in her sleep, and almost did sometimes.

_"Anko, I cannot carry you much longer, you're getting to be too big."_

She yawned, sleepily, and curled her arms tighter around his neck. She could feel him grumbling, the rumble of his voice vibrating through his back, and smiled. "Then I've gotta stay up here as long as I can, Orochimaru-sensei." The creak of the first step as he put his weight on it...

The first step creaked, and she looked at the little rope, head cocked, discerning if there were any warding jutsu on it to keep curious people from poking their head into the home of one of the most famous defectors. There were none, and she stepped over this rope too and stood once more on the little porch. The doorknob, once a bright bronze, was tarnished with the slow decay of time.

_It was shiny, and she could see her reflection in it as she reached to grab it and turn it, the door opening slowly. "Sensei, are you home?"_

"Anko, come to the back room..."

Shaking that memory off, she grabbed the doorknob (amazed at how her fingers remembered its shape perfectly) and turned. There was the slow grind of tumblers turning, and the door creaked open. She half-expected to hear Orochimaru calling out irritably to whoever was interrupting him, but all she heard was the skittering of rats, and the slow thud of her own feet on the floorboards. The floor was an inch thick in dust, and it stirred around her feet in clouds when she walked in. Most of the sparse furniture had been overturned, or was now holey and useless. One chair remained upright in the kitchen, at the table with settings for two. It was the one he had always sat in, she knew. Hers had fallen over, or been turned over, and lay broken in a corner. Reaching out, she touched the worn wooden seat, and then the broken and chipped dinnerware. How long had she lain on his bed after he'd left and before the ANBU had come seeking further proof of his betrayal?

The fridge had been cleaned out, thank god, and she saw only dust and the stained shelves inside. The cupboards were bare, save for some spare plates and glasses, and the drawers empty. She found a dishcloth in one, but it was moldy, and she did not touch it.

Moving past the living room and the kitchen, she continued toward the back of the house, stopping at a room (her name still clearly written on a sheet of scroll-paper taped to the door, though it was curling and yellowed with age), and pushed this door open. But for the layer of dust on everything, she could have walked back in time. Not a single thing was out of place, from the scrolls scattered about on the desk

_"Why do you not clean your room, Anko?"_

"I remember where I drop everything this way, sensei!"  
  
to the clothes in the dresser, tossed in haphazardly. She pulled out a shirt she remembered as being a present from him, holding it up, feeling the soft cloth under her fingertips, and then folded it back into the drawer. It lay neatly upon the other ones she'd tossed into there thoughtlessly, looking out of place. Her closet held formal kimonos, little sandals made for little feet, and a few trinkets and things in boxes on a shelf. She smiled, pulling them out one by one and turning them over in her hands. Memories came back from each.

But it was not quite done yet; she left her room, leaving the door open (a wide swath of disturbed dust bunnies testament of her passage) and made her way to the last room in the house; her sensei's room. Strange how despite everything, she still thought of him in that way. Who had said that sensei and student formed a deeper bond than any save a lover? Had that been Gai? She snorted softly, but the little laugh died in her chest as her hand touched the doorknob. The door was slightly ajar, just as it had been that night.

_She pushed it open and stood before him, always a little fidgety. He said, a little harshly, "Can you not stand still, Anko?"_

"Sorry," she mumbled, and stilled herself. She knew the bite in his voice was only for show; Orochimaru-sensei would never hurt her, never. Indeed, the glimmer in his eyes was one of tacit approval--tacit, because he and she knew that he could never give voice to most things that pleased him truly. To do so would have been to give over power to another, and Orochimaru-sensei did not do that. "You wanted to see me?"

"Anko, I have a gift for you."

Her eyes lit up, and a smile came over her face. "Really, sensei? But it's not my birthday, or Solstice, or New Year's--"

"Must I have a reason to give my talented pupil a gift?" He got up and picked her up, spinning her around; an eleven-year-old Anko squealed in delight, and her smile was radiant as she watched him from the edge of the bed where he'd sat her down. "I give you the gift of power."

Her seal twinged. Rubbing at it absently, she touched the bed; the covers had been stripped, leaving only the fitted sheet and some pillows. That was enough though; she thought, as she lay down on the bed heedless of the cloud of dust that puffed up in her wake. They still retained his scent of stone, of things out of reach of the sunlight. Orochimaru had always had his eyes on the roots of things, and never looked up to see the sun. Staring at the ceiling, she remembered times when she was sick and he would sit in the chair beside the bed and read scrolls to her. She had insisted, not wanting to get behind in her studies, and it had pleased him to.

How much of who she was had been molded by his hand? How much remained, an indelible glaze, a piece of pottery fired too many times to be reshaped?

_It had hurt, such that the word 'excruciating' was an understatement._

She remembered feelings of hurt, betrayal--was this the price for her sensei's power? Did she want to pay it? Screaming as her head filled to bursting, her chakra raged out of control as regulation shifted from her own control to being regulated through the seal, under his control.

And despite all that pain, all the confusion inside her, she remembered cool white hands sponging her face and neck, bringing the fever down. She remembered him speaking to her, although what she said in return she did not remember. When she woke up, he was beside her, sleeping.

That gave her pause, and she sat up, not wanting to think about it. Walking to his closet, she opened it; some clothes still hung up, but they were moth-eaten, and she did not touch them. Closing the door, she turned to go.

Something caught her eye; the glint of glass in the sunlight, and she stopped, walking over to the bedside table. There was a picture frame, face-down; a shard of broken glass peeked out from under it and caught the weak sunlight, and that had gotten her attention. Knowing what picture was inside, she picked up the frame--the memory of this picture was so strong that she could feel his hands on her shoulders again. Without thinking, she slid the picture out of its frame, leaving that on the bed, and tucked the picture into a pocket before leaving the room, a strange feeling in her chest.

Stepping out into the sunlight outside the house, she hopped the gate again, and continued on her way.


End file.
